I'm doing my best to grill the owners of Villa Cristiana. I want the names of the myriad plants that coat the hillside property overlooking the Thyrrenian Sea. I want to know why so few foreign tourists come to Maratea, this tiny, beautiful strip of coast on Italy's south-western seaboard, while a few hours north in Amalfi, there are busloads of them. I want to know about the Mafiosi and the anti-fascist guerrillas who hid in caves cut into nearby cliffs at various stages of the last century. But most of all I want to know about Fabio Cannavaro. I've just been told that the World Cup-winning Italian captain is a previous guest at the villa, and I want to know every last detail of his stay.

This is one of the coolest things I'll ever be able to tell my mates. I'll do it nonchalantly, I'm thinking. No big deal. And I'll warm them up first. "Yeah, you know, I was staying with Brooke Shields's cousin (I'll explain that bit later, but for now I'll just drop it in, casually) in a villa overlooking the sea. The apartment I slept in was pretty much a tower. No one knows about it, of course. Except Fabio Cannavaro. He's stayed there too, you see." Pow!

Maratea, a cluster of towns sprinkled along a winding strip of coast, is for the cognoscenti; a hideaway for those in-the-know, and for the monied and the pestered. Names such as Frank Sinatra and Princess Diana crop up in stories of Maratea's past - people who found refuge in a place where the population density is almost as sparse as the Amazon - 5,000 residents scattered across 180 square kilometres.

It might just be Italy's biggest secret, and they've done pretty well keeping it. It is so overshadowed by Amalfi - the famous undulating coast south of Naples beloved of car adverts and James Bond opening sequences - that most tourists stay there; they don't come here.

The Maratea coast is a tiny, thirsty protrusion of the nearly land-locked region of Basilicata, making a break for the sea. From the inland motorway, the road chicanes and hairpins towards the coast. Almost immediately, my travel buddy and I are cooing at the views. The hillsides are coated with pines, carob trees and oaks sweeping towards the Gulf of Policastro. We've just come from Amalfi, and we can't stop comparing the two. There, you get signs in English for hotels, restaurants and other tourist-aimed ventures every 100m or so. Here there is nothing but a parched, natural ruggedness. We barely pass a car for half an hour and, with our guards down, nearly run a goat herd off the road.

My buddy, navigating, is flustered. According to the map there are several Marateas. Marina di Maratea, Porto di Maratea, Maratea Santavenere, Maratea Centro Storico. Maratea, we learn, is more of a district than a town. Our printed directions instruct us to look out for a sign indicating the Hotel Delle Meraviglie, because Villa Cristiana doesn't even have a sign.

When we get there, it's an Eden. Half way down a winding path, a white gate opens into what looks like some kind of landscaped botanic gardens staggering towards the cliff. I think of my mum, who would be in seventh heaven. But even as a horticultural philistine, I'm amazed. Potted pink ones, climbing reds, spiralling blues bursting from the ground.

The villa is owned by Francesco and the eponymous, striking Cristiana, who walk me through the grounds when we arrive. I learn that her cousin is Brooke Shields, her grandma was a princess, and grandpa, Frank Shields, was a men's singles finalist at Wimbledon in 1931. Then they tell me about Cannavaro. I struggle to conceal 14-year-old giggles. The Garden, ah yes, the garden. My notes tell me that, among other things, the grounds are home to bougainvillea, hydrangea, cannavaro, gardenia, dracaena palms, camellias, oleander, cannavaro, birds of paradise and myrtle.

We are shown to our tower - an apartment sculpted from one of the dozens of ancient fortifications that dot the coast. We are served a late breakfast brimming with local products: baby strawberries with yogurt from Potenza, organic Burrini butter encased in its own cheese, and zinging espressos. Then to the pool, with views over the cliff and out to sea. We're reluctant to leave and explore. There is room for about 12 people on the property, but off season we've got it to ourselves.

Eventually we make it to Porto di Maratea, a collection of buildings with white and egg-yolk yellow facades arranged around a harbour. And on the water, a small but veritable fleet: three of the biggest yachts I've ever seen. There's something rather lovely about the disparity between land and sea here. The glitz, it seems, stays on the water. The town hasn't been surgically enhanced by its affluent advocates, and still feels distinctly southern Italian - unpolished, mellow and charming.

We are directed to La Rolonda restaurant by a man called Dario. Tell them you are a friend of mine, he says. We crawl up steps cut into the cliff and in through the restaurant's back door. "Ah, you must be Dario's friends ... " the owner exclaims, before we've said a word. Dario had called ahead. The terrace out back overhangs a small segment of cliff, with vines overhead and the harbour below. The food is superb but affordable; €4 for pasta starters and €15 for swordfish steaks. After dinner, down in the small square a few dozen people have gathered for nightcaps and gelato.

The following morning, we head off to explore the other towns that make up what we now realise is the district of Maratea. Ogling over the towns from the top of a mountain, a 22ft marble statue of Jesus is Maratea's answer to Rio's Christ the Redeemer. We head up. Towards the top, where there isn't much mountain to play with, the road continues to bend regardless, careering into the air on large pillars sunken into the rock. This is the day my pal decides to have his first stab at driving on the right. It becomes increasingly obvious why they put Jesus at the top.

The historic centre, Maratea Storico, is a classic Italian hill town of cobbled stones, whitewashed buildings and old ladies sitting on benches. Further north, Cersuta is a tiny collection of houses with an excellent restaurant, Da Cesare, under the arches of the overpass. At the southern end of the coast, the sea swirls into the jagged rock forming a small, peaceful inlet at La Secca, where a natural pool of calm water is perfect for kids and grown-up paddlers.

At La Secca, we encounter English tourists, an elderly couple, for the first time, and they seem as annoyed at seeing us as we are at seeing them. I'm slightly peeved that I can't return home bragging that I didn't see a single other Brit the whole time I was in Maratea chilling with Cannavaro. But the couple play ball. We form an unspoken agreement, and don't say a single word to each other.

• Long Travel (01694 722193, long-travel.co.uk ) offers seven-nights B&B at Villa Cristiana from £453pp per week, including flights from Gatwick or Heathrow (other airports available on request) to Naples and car hire. Seven nights in the self-catering La Torre from £369pp based on four sharing, inc car hire and flights. Until end of May rooms available by the night from £39pp pn B&B.